I leaves my daughter zafe and zound,
And in her pocket a thousan pound,
And on her finger a goulden ring,
And in her busum a silver pin.
I hopes when I return,
To see her here with you.
Don’t’e let her ramble; don’t’e let her trot;
Don’t’e let her car’ the mustard pot.

The Mistress says softly—

She shall ramble, she shall trot,
She shall carry the mustard pot.

—Dorset County Chronicle, April 1889; Folk-lore Journal, vii. 228.

III.

Here comes an old woman from Baby-land,
With all her children in her hand.
Pray take one of my children in.

[Spoken]

What can your children do?

[Sung]

One can bake, one can brew,
And one can bake a lily-white cake.
One can sit in the parlour and sing,
And this one can do everything.